Love in the Borderlands

Seen from Mexico, and at a distance, the American border wall across Arizona is surprisingly beautiful. The rusted steel bollards take on the color of wild buckwheat in the fall, a deep and lustrous burgundy red, and it’s only when you get close that a chemical orange tinge reveals itself. From this distance, and on this side, the wall looks like land art, a dark wine-colored line sketched across the horizon, rising and falling with the topography like kelp in a gentle ocean swell. Of course, it wasn’t created to be beautiful, or thoughtful, or nice. It was made to keep people out, and to intimidate. The post-apocalyptic steampunk vibe was intentional, and it’s easy to see each bollard as a certain former president’s middle finger aimed south.

In reality, though, the wall could never be just one thing. It is beautiful and horrific—and so much more. Such is the nature of the border zone, where the tides tug in all